


Pylades' Night

by stopcallingmeapollo (GayMarauders)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Barricade Day, M/M, also yes i stole some lines but it's public domain now so..., thank you for this masterpiece vickie, this is the saddest fic i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 23:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayMarauders/pseuds/stopcallingmeapollo
Summary: A reimagining of the days at the barricade, through Grantaire's eyes.Part of a Barricade Day art trade with @weisbrot on tumblr.





	Pylades' Night

**Author's Note:**

> The art by the lovely @wesibrot that accompanies this fic can be found here: http://weisbrot.tumblr.com/day/2017/06/06

_ "Matelote is homely! Matelote is of a dream of ugliness! Matelote is a chimaera. This is the secret of her birth: a Gothic Pygmalion, who was making gargoyles for cathedrals, fell in love with one of them, the most horrible, one fine morning. He besought Love to give it life, and this produced Matelote. Look at her, citizens! She has chromate-of-lead-colored hair, like Titian's mistress, and she is a good girl. I guarantee that she will fight well. Every good girl contains a hero. As for Mother Hucheloup, she's an old warrior. Look at her moustaches! She inherited them from her husband. A hussar indeed! She will fight too. These two alone will strike terror to the heart of the banlieue. Comrades, we shall overthrow the government as true as there are fifteen intermediary acids between margaric acid and formic acid; however, that is a matter of perfect indifference to me. Gentlemen, my father always detested me because I could not understand mathematics. I understand only love and liberty. I am Grantaire, the good fellow. Having never had any money, I never acquired the habit of it, and the result is that I have never lacked it; but, if I had been rich, there would have been no more poor people! You would have seen! Oh, if the kind hearts only had fat purses, how much better things would go! I picture myself Jesus Christ with Rothschild's fortune! How much good he would do! Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and timid! You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sister, and lips which claim the kiss of a lover." _

Grantaire lurches forward, intent in his drunkenness upon embracing poor Matelote. The woman, every bit the warrior the artist described her as, took the high ground on a nearby crate and fended her admirer off with a hearty shove.

“Leave the poor girl alone, R,” Courfeyrac calls as Grantaire gracelessly stumbles, catching hold of the edge of the nearest table.

“I only wished to...pay tribute, an homage of sorts, to--to--”

“Unless you wish to give your life in tribute to France, go elsewhere,” an unamused voice cuts in. Grantaire looks up to see Enjolras, his red jacket bright against the dusty pile of furniture and cobblestones behind him, blond hair tumbling in a mess of curls to his shoulders. If he were not in the middle of being reprimanded, Grantaire might have reached for his paper and charcoal then and there, the image of this slight yet statuesque figure catches his imagination so strongly. Grantaire’s green eyes take in every detail of the form he knows by heart already a thousand times before he registers what is being said. “Well, Grantaire?”

Grantaire realizes that in his reverie, he has missed one of his leader’s infamous lectures on life and liberty. He is struck with a sudden impulse, surrounded as he is by the rubble of the barricade and with tragedy heavy in the air. Before he can think, he rises, going to Enjolras and kneeling before him. On any other day this would have been the action of a drunken jester, but tonight it holds a profound sincerity. The supplicant and his god. “Let me sleep here.”

“Go and sleep somewhere else.” Enjolras’s steely gaze meets Grantaire’s softened one, and slowly the features shift to something Grantaire, in his years of studying them, has never seen.

“Let me sleep here--until I die.” Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’s chest for a moment, caution abandoned at the thought that he may never be so close to an angel again. He feels a hand on his head, the touch feather-light but unmistakable, and he feels something between a sob and a laugh escape his lips.

Enjolras releases a deep breath before speaking again, the moment broken.

“Are you capable of  _ anything  _ serious, Grantaire?”

Grantaire pulls away, regaining his feet clumsily and trying to explain the emotion behind the sound that Enjolras apparently mistook for mirth.

“No.” Enjolras cuts him off sharply. “I’ll answer my own question.  _ Grantaire, you are  _ incapable  _ of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying _ .” The barricade goes dead silent as the head of every student turns to see the two men staring at each other, Enjolras head and shoulders below Grantaire, yet somehow commanding just as much attention as the air between them practically crackles with tension. Finally, Grantaire utters three words:

“ _ You will see _ .”

Enjolras’s cool expression cracks for a moment, his brow wrinkling in confusion, and Grantaire stands and exits the room before he can reply.

* * *

 

Grantaire wakes to the sound of pistol fire. He had disobeyed Enjolras’s orders, curling up by the wall of the cafe rather than leaving his friends behind. As he blinks sleep from his eyes he realizes that the battle is raging around him. Nearby, Feuilly and Bahorel are cleaning and reloading guns, handing them to Joly to be run to those currently firing at the National Guard. Enjolras is on the barricade-- _ of course, the fool, risking his life alongside those who look to him _ \--and the sun shines down on him, catching his hair in a way Grantaire thinks God himself must have arranged. As he gazes at the leader in red, a movement above him and slightly to the side catches his attention. Grantaire looks up to the rooftops and spies a soldier taking aim, his rifle pointing directly at Enjolras.

“Enjolras! Move!” Grantaire is on his feet now, running, with no thought in his head now except that  _ this cannot happen.  _ Somehow he reaches the barricade, clambering up and knocking Enjolras to the side. He feels...something...not pain, but impact, and then the world is tilting, and all is black.

* * *

 

“Grantaire?” Only that voice could have drawn Grantaire from the darkness, and he wakes once more. His head is pounding and pain shoots through his shoulder as he attempts to sit up.

“Enjolras--”

“Don’t try to move, just lie back.” He is gently but firmly pressed back against the surface where he is lying, which upon glancing around, he judges to be a table. “You were shot,” Enjolras’s voice says softly. It seems to be coming from his right side, so he moves his head until he can see the source. “You--took a bullet for me.” Enjolras is dishevelled, hair falling in his face and clothes askew. His voice is almost gentle.

“I suppose I was capable of something after all.” 

“Of putting yourself in danger, yes,” Enjolras says dryly. “An unsurprising development.” It almost seems like he is teasing, but Grantaire knows better.

“Come now, is that any way to treat your hero?” He asks flippantly. A smile flits across Enjolras’s face, and he turns away quickly.

“Stay here. I’ll check on you later.”

* * *

 

“Do you need anything?” Marius’s face retains the openness it has always had despite the grime and blood now streaked across it. Grantaire is sitting at the table he had awoken on, drinking water from a flask and listening to the murmured conversations around him.

“There should be a bag somewhere, I left it near the door--it has my paper and some charcoal in it,” Grantaire replies. Marius leaves and returns shortly, bag in hand.

“Are you sure you should be drawing with your shoulder--”

“I draw with my left hand,” Grantaire explains.

“Ah.” Marius stands nearby for a moment, awkwardly, before wandering off as Grantaire ignores him in favour of the art supplies before him. 

He takes up a piece of charcoal and shuffles through the papers until he finds a clean one. His mind goes back to Enjolras, standing on the barricade; Enjolras, staring down at him almost tenderly; Enjolras, his features set in determination...soon the page is full of the gentle curve of a pale nack, the strong line of a jaw, a greyscale translation of the depth of blue eyes. Grantaire is just beginning to trace tumbling curls across the high forehead when he hears footsteps approaching his corner. Looking up, he sees the object of his worship coming toward him. Enjolras sinks into the chair beside him, mere inches away. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I was shot.”

“Fair enough.”

Grantaire looks up and quirks an eyebrow at Enjolras’s mild response.

“Can I help you?” He doesn’t mean to sound combative, but Enjolras looks mildly uncomfortable, his gaze lowering to the table.

“What you did was stupid,” he says. “You could have died. It was reckless and dangerous and--I wanted to thank you.” 

Grantaire laughs and Enjolras smiles, a bright, genuine smile that Grantaire could stare at for ages.

“That came out wrong.”

“I think it came out perfectly. You always were so eloquent,” Grantaire replies.

“Moreso since you began attending meetings,” Enjolras says, his gaze downcast once more.

“What?”

“Well--not that I appreciate your methods, but--your presence and constant opposition has pushed me more than the other discussions I’ve had, quite honestly. My arguments are stronger for having fought you every step of the way. You have become integral to my--to the cause.” There is a vulnerability here that Grantaire has never seen from Enjolras. 

“If I have managed to help you in any way then the hours spent here were well worth it,” he says quietly.

“Perhaps…”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps we should have taken the time to discuss things...more civilly. It’s just that you have an uncanny ability to--to arouse such a passion in me--” Grantaire bites back a smirk as Enjolras blushes at his own unfortunate choice in words. “I find it difficult not to take assaults on my arguments for freedom personally.”

“I think that is part of what makes you a great leader,” Grantaire says.

“You--you think--”

“Yes.”

The silence as they stare at each other, Enjolras searching Grantaire’s face for  _ something,  _ is interminable. Finally he coughs, breaking it.

“What are you drawing there?”

“Apollo.” Grantaire tries to pull the page away, but Enjolras has already turned it toward himself. The drawing is still mostly visible despite Grantaire’s attempts to destroy it. Something in Enjolras’s expression makes him think he recognizes the lie, but it is gone as quickly as it appears, and he releases the paper once more.

“You have a gift. It would be a shame for it to be lost here.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“My gift is revolution. It was meant to burn out brightly, all at once, in a place like this. But you could create so much beauty, Grantaire.” The thought of Enjolras’s light extinguished cuts to the core.

“I think my muse will have left me after tonight. But perhaps, if we all survive, I will paint a scene from the barricade for you.”

“Then we will all survive,” Enjolras says warmly. He lays his hand on Grantaire’s gently. “Get some rest tonight, my friend, and when this is over we will have a real conversation--” suddenly the sound of gunfire rings out. Enjolras leaps to his feet, pistol drawn, Grantaire forgotten. “We’re under attack!”

And Grantaire is alone once more.

* * *

 

An hour later, Grantaire leaves the safety of the Musaine to check on his friends outside. He stumbles into a frenzy of activity, the energy less determined and more panicked than during the first attack. Something in his stomach twists as he realizes that Enjolras’s voice is no longer shouting orders out over the sound of the battle. His eyes are drawn to the ground by the barricade and he sees red cloth, golden curls--

“ _ NO!”  _ The scream is wrenched from him as he pushes through the confusion to Enjolras’s side. He reaches out to touch his face and finds it as cold as the marble he once likened it to. “No, no, no…” he is sobbing, Enjolras’s body cradled in his arms. The people around him don’t seem to notice; don’t seem to care. He looks down and suddenly Enjolras’s eyes open.

“There is no future without me, Grantaire.”

* * *

 

Grantaire wakes with a start. It is early morning, and the sun shines down softly on him where he lay sleeping a moment before. An eery silence fills the air, and his friends are nowhere to be seen. He looks to the foot of the barricade, but Enjolras’s body is not there.

_ A dream. All of it a dream. _

He stands and finds that his shoulder is intact--none of it was real. Enjolras is safe. The fighting must have ended, and he had been forgotten...

“He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot.” 

“Shoot me.” 

The words carry out the second story window and through the still morning air, striking dread into the heart of the man below. At the sound of that voice uttering that phrase, he is moved to action. He barely registers the bodies strewn about the floor of the cafe, though he can feel his soul beginning to ache at the sight of his friends there. There is only one thought, one impulse left in the mind of the artist. He climbs the stairs with single-minded urgency until he bursts into the room where the National Guard have taken aim at Enjolras.

Enjolras, his pale skin streaked with blood, his chin thrown up in defiance. Enjolras, alone in his last moments, without the men he brought to this place. Enjolras, whom Grantaire has loved so long, taking his final breath--

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.” Six soldiers turn to face Grantaire in surprise, but the only gaze that matters is Enjolras’s. Their eyes meet and for a moment, they are alone. Something that resembles relief appears on Enjolras’s face, and Grantaire walks toward him steadily.

“Long live the Republic!” And then, reaching Enjolras’s side: “Do you permit it?”

Enjolras holds out a hand to Grantaire, and he takes his place beside him. They hold each other’s gaze as they clasp hands, and the last thing that Grantaire hears is a whispered “ _ Yes.” _


End file.
